by Susan Pendley somewherein my dreamsand when I wake,the relentless crawler ticks.A senseless scrolling of regrets.I want to wind downinto that prairie-dog townand find you theregnawing on the cornersof my mind.If I wander through the mazeyou madewould I see you there?Could I touch youand hear your voice? I run through…
by William Heath On the Serengeti you see so many edible animals roaming about, you wonder why there aren’t more lions around. They could feast on at least three squares a day and grow enormously fat, their kids could multiply and do the same. But it seems one feast on a juicy flank is enough to keep your African lion satisfied for…
by Kelly Sicard May we open our eyes to those who suffer. But if we are blind, may their cries and stories reach our ears. And if we are deaf, may their voices echo so they quake in our hearts. And if our hearts are hardened, may memories of grace-filled hands lifting us crack them open. And if our…
by Gil Hoy Last night we squabbled again in my dream. We squabbled about whether we’d been in love With each other and never another. And when we both agreed we had We fought about who’d loved the other one more, and why. I won that argument too (as I usually did) or maybe …
by Bill Derry It is you, Carlos flashing your brilliant smile cruising your new bicycle sporting your black hoodie unabashedly you Yes, you, Carlos, innocent, eighteen, inquietante a spotless record already employed a consternation to your neighbors perturbador de la paz Yes, your Spanish-speaking, legal asylum–seeking, ideology-wreaking self,a palpable threat una verdadera amenaza So, of course, the early morning raid from ICE…
by Redde Michaels Did you see Aurora take flight? I overheard there was no Southern coy, so long as you had a camera to capture her streaking. Such a hasty raving from the harbinger of dawn, though her escapade was largely unnoticed here, where the vibrancy was lost against the…
by Sonnet Mondal Sometimes we run into someone just for once in our lives and our bones refuse to fit inside the skin the same way. Plans proceed as waves and recede as doubts. A fleeting joy with gnawing pangs of apprehension the stretch between experience and fear seems like the time taken by a fish to…
by Olivia Austin How sweet, the words we write- Under tinted sun of gray. Sons of sons, unborn but ready To tell us our crimes. A glancing breath, The total of self ellipses our tongue And dies. Water, undropped. Every word around is tightening, Crown worn at our throats. To be given empty life Is the truth we cannot accept. These words…
by Vern Fein In his poem “How To Be A Poet,” Wendell Berry tells me to sit down and be quiet. Let my mind breathe. He lists everything I might bring— affection, inspiration, patience, growing older—and says we should doubt any reader who likes our work. Write without air-conditioning. Communicate slowly—there are only sacred places, nothing unsacred, but some desecrated…
by Nancy Byrne Iannucci Jim, my neighbor, is the village Sam Elliot, hair as thick as a horse’s mane and gray like a January day. He doesn’t have a mustache, but his cigar replaces the vacancy, floating in white clouds above his mouth. Circles of sweet smoke travel distances like a Sioux medicine man. He can heal…